


Pylades and Prejudice: A Jane Austen AU

by callervera



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, F/M, M/M, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callervera/pseuds/callervera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a truth universally ignored that a single man in possession of a good fortune might want nothing to do with a wife.</p><p>Grantaire is unimpressed with the grandeur of his proud new neighbor and Enjolras is pretty much too good to be bothered with anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I-III

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best to write in the style of P&P without blatantly ripping off anything from Jane Austen. If something seems familiar and REALLY GOOD, it definitely isn't mine. Apologies in advance.
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr.](http://icallervera.tumblr.com/)  
> Come say hi. That would be lovely.  
> 

It is a truth universally ignored that a single man in possession of a good fortune might want nothing to do with a wife.

Unbeknownst to the residents of Meryton, however, was the simple fact that avoiding matrimony was the primary reason for one Mr. Enjolras, formerly of London, letting the Netherfield Park estate situated just outside of their small village. In ignorance of this fact, the neighbors in the small country village considered Mr. Enjolras the rightful property of one or other of their daughters and he was sole subject of all gossip and idle chatter in Meryton for over a fortnight before his arrival at Netherfield.

Indeed, nothing but talk of Mr. Enjolras assaults the ear of Mr. Grantaire, a relative newcomer to Meryton himself, as he presses his way through the bustling village square on an errand to the local tailor on behalf of his benefactor, Mr. Marius Pontmercy.

“He is single,” a young lady giggles to another as Grantaire strolls past.

“I hear that Mr. Enjolras has ten thousand pounds a year,” a mother tells her gaggle of homely daughters. Grantaire rolls his eyes at the enormous sum. A man in possession of such a large fortune could not possibly be good company. The richest men that Grantaire knows tend to be the most unpleasant.

“My aunt in London claims that he is the handsomest gentleman she’s ever laid eyes on. His face is reported to be that of a greek statue,” says another girl, standing directly inside of the tailor’s door, idly twirling her closed parasol. The girl, despite her words in praise of Mr. Enjolras, gives Grantaire an appreciative glance as he strolls past her. Although not reputed to be constructed like a work of classic art, Grantaire is considered attractive enough with his trim figure, inky black curls and bright green eyes.

The girl with the parasol tips her chin at him and murmurs, “Good morning, sir.”

Grantaire nods back warmly and continues deeper into the shop. Such gossip and conjecture greeted his own arrival in Meryton, a mere six months earlier, as part of a party that accompanied Mr. Marius Pontmercy to the nearby estate of Longbourn. Indeed, Pontmercy had been considered the most eligible bachelor in town at the time, with his income of four thousand a year, but the impending arrival of the acclaimed Mr. Enjolras has already done much to dull the glitter of Pontmercy’s star.

This slight drop in status isn’t a problem for Grantaire. He hopes that the new bachelor’s presence in town will finally stem the unwelcome tide of hopeful young ladies that has flowed steadily through the drawing room at Longbourn since early summer. Mr. Pontmercy’s elderly grandfather had sent Pontmercy to the country to live among a small group of male peers in hopes that his grandson might mature in their company while enjoying the gentlemanly pursuits of the country—hunting and riding and such—before returning to London and selecting a bride from among London’s most eligible young women. Much to the dissatisfaction of the young ladies of Meryton, Marius Pontmercy was very much not in search of a country-bred wife.

Grantaire was pleased to be selected as a member of the Pontmercy party. Although he himself cannot claim to possess the status of a gentleman, he is well-regarded throughout London for his skill as an artist. Pontmercy’s grandfather had deemed Grantaire suitable enough to serve as a tutor to the young man in the pursuits of art, dance and fencing. Marius Pontmercy is an affable, open young gentleman and he and Grantaire have grown to be near brothers in closeness during the six months they have spent together in the country.

The remainder of their small party of bachelors includes one Dr. Joly, a young physician who is both knowledgeable in currently maladies and terrified of contracting them himself. Dr. Joly is convinced that the country air will be beneficial for the fortitude of his own health and that of his friends. This obsession is the reason that their carriage remains unused in the carriage house, forcing the members of the household to walk everywhere. Joly believes that walking is essential to maintaining optimal health.

The fourth and final member of their household is Mr. Laigle, called Bossuet by his friends, a cheerful gentleman whose family has fallen upon hard times as of late and unluckily lost most of their fortune. Bossuet bears his ill luck with a cheerful smile and is the liveliest member of their group of friends.

Indeed, the exuberance and optimism of Marius, Joly and Bossuet provide a welcome balance to Grantaire’s inherent cynicism. Often chided for his tendency to be suspicious of the motives of others, Grantaire will nonetheless be pleased to be left alone with the company of his bachelor friends once the young ladies of Meryton turn their attention to the Enjolras party. As far as Grantaire is concerned, young ladies are rarely up to any good.

His suspicions of general character of women are confirmed yet again, as the parasol girl is led away by her disapproving mother who whispers something that Grantaire can’t quite make out but sounds remarkably like “penniless.” The girl’s coquettish expression falls away and she flounces out the door behind her mother, her fine nose in the hair.

Grantaire sighs, unsurprised but still disappointed by the girl’s behavior. He pays the tailor for the waistcoat and small package of cravats, then sets out on foot back to Longbourn, a short distance of one mile down a picturesque country road. Grantaire is pleased to leave the giggling ladies and gossip about Mr. Enjolras as the village streets disappears behind him.

###

The peaceful silence of Grantaire’s homeward walk does not last past his arrival in the parlor of Longboure, as Marius is bustling about the room, dictating a letter of welcome to Mr. Enjolras and inviting the man to dinner. Bossuet is doggedly copying down Marius’ stilted prose, but the young gentleman keeps rewriting and revising so often that a remarkably large pile of rejected paper has begun to pile up around Bossuet’s armchair.

Grantaire hands the brown-paper wrapped package to the housekeeper and saunters over to the sideboard to pour himself an admirably large tumbler of brandy. Marius’ attempts at elocution always require a stiff drink or several.

“I do hope Mr. Enjolras will accept an invitation to dine with us, Grantaire,” Marius says. “My grandfather speaks so highly of his character and sends his desire that we shall be great friends. I should hate to disappoint grandfather by proving unsuitable to Mr. Enjolras’ company.”

“I have no doubt that he will find you to be the most amiable and courteous of gentlemen, Marius,” Grantaire assures him.

“If the rumors from London are to believed,” Joly speaks up from his armchair, where he smokes his pipe in quiet contemplation, “Mr. Enjolras is handsome but haughty, with fine manners but an icy disposition.”

Grantaire laughs and pours himself another brandy. “Do not seek to frighten Marius, Joly. He is timid enough among new company without fearing the hypothetical disdain of a man that he has yet to meet.”

The invitation to dinner is soon dispatched, but yields only disappointment: Mr. Enjolras plans remain in London longer than expected and will not settle at Netherfield for nearly a fortnight. The delay in his arrival, however, is prompted by his need to gather his ward--a reputedly sweet and lovely young woman by the name of Euphrasie Fauchelevent—as well as secure a party of gentleman who will also take up residence at the estate.

A piece of good news accompanies Mr. Enjolras’ dinner declination: an invitation to a ball to be held at Netherfield Park on the eve of the party’s arrival in the country.

Marius, in his excitement about the ball, immediately dispatches Bossuet on an errand to the tailor for yet another new waistcoat and requests that Grantaire suspend all of his other lessons in order to focus on dancing. Knowledge of the complex dance steps has always eluded Marius and it is the greatest wish of his grandfather’s that the young man become less socially awkward during his stay in the country.

By the time the date of the ball arrives, Marius can be said to be adequate at the cotillion, the reel and even the waltz. If Marius is considered adequate than Grantaire is exquisite. Although he primarily considers himself a painter, his skill with a paintbrush and canvas can only be said to be marginally superior to his grace on the dance floor. Grantaire dancing is poetry in motion.

Joly has rescinded his anti-carriage rule in honor of the ball and the four men chatter excitedly during the short ride to Netherfield Park. Marius hopes to make an acquaintance that will please his grandfather, Joly and Bossuet have heard rumors that the other gentlemen in the Enjolras party are among the most affable in London, and Grantaire is looking forward to the quality of the Netherfield Park wine cellar. It promises to be the most pleasant of evenings.

The guests are greeted in the assembly room of Netherfield by the Enjolras party, but not Mr. Enjolras himself. They are three altogether in the absence of their host; two gentlemen and a lovely young lady that can only be presumed to be Mr. Enjolras’ ward.

The first gentleman, Mr. Courfeyrac has a pleasant countenance and easy, unaffected manners; his broad smile and dark chestnut curls complete the picture of gentlemanly courtesy. The second, Mr. Combeferre, is more reserved than his friend, but still most dignified and polite. He wears small spectacles and his cravat is neatly tied over a dove-grey waistcoat.

The young lady is indeed Miss Fauchevelent and her pale skin, large blue eyes and golden curls draw dark looks from the other young ladies present in the ballroom. Miss Fauchelevent’s blue silk gown is of the latest London fashion and her hair intricately styled, but her expression and general countenance are that of humbleness and modest beauty. Although she might be dressed in outward finery, Grantaire judges her to be a most kind-hearted and demure young lady. And Mr. Grantaire’s first impressions were rarely incorrect.

The arrival of Mr. Enjolras draws the attention of the room by his impressive stature, noble expression and fine features surrounded by golden curls. The gentlemen present all declare him to be an admirable figure and the ladies are stunned into silence, shyly whispering to one another behind their fans.

Grantaire, despite his natural inclination toward cynicism, is unable to find fault in Enjolras’ appearance. He is impeccable in a dark coat, red waistcoat and black cravat. And the gossip about the fineness of his features did not prove to be hyperbole; the man does indeed appear to be sculpted by a classical artist out of the finest white marble. Grantaire finds himself captivated by the cool blue of the tall gentleman’s gaze as it lights upon him for the briefest of moments.

Indeed, Enjolras’ outward appearance has captivated the admiration of every person in the room until his cold manners give them cause to reconsider their collective good opinion. He is abrupt, cold and gives off an air of general displeasure, despite the fact that the ball is in his own home.

Enjolras meets Marius’ warm greeting with a cold bow that nearly reduces the young gentleman to tears. Mr. Courfeyrac, demonstrating a kindness that his handsome friend lacks, attempts to distract Marius from his host's abrupt dismissal by introducing him to the lovely Miss Fauchelevent. Marius somehow finds the wherewithal to ask her to save him a dance. Grantaire couldn’t be more proud of his student.

As the ballroom steps and reels, Mr. Enjolras’ figure can be seen standing on the edges of the dance floor, watching the revelers with a cool detachment. Miss Fauchelevent, however, has numerous partners and Grantaire finds her to be most pleasant during his time on her arm during the cotillion. She seems to be quite the opposite of her guardian, warm where he was cold, demonstrating openness to his cool reserve.

As for Grantaire, he finds himself constantly pressed to dance. Although he is an unsuitable match for marriage, the scarcity of gentleman present make him a most desirable dance partner for the young ladies in attendance. Grantaire whirls and spins his way through eight consecutive dances when he decides that he must rest or risk exhaustion.

It was during this period of rest, as Grantaire helps himself to a glass of wine, that he manages to overhear a conversation between Mr. Enjolras and his pretty ward.

“Come, Enjolras,” Miss Fauchelevent softly implores, “I must have you dance. It breaks my heart to see you standing about in such a silly manner. I shall sit out myself if you will not join me.”

“Cosette,” Enjolras says, invoking sweet nickname for the girl in a tone that is anything but gentle. Nonetheless Grantaire is thrilled at the sound of the man's voice. It is rich and low, like thick velvet spread across mahogany. “I shan’t embarrass myself to step out on that floor. Not even to please you, sweet girl.”

“Please, sir. Is there no one person here who can tempt you?”

Enjolras glances around the room, his blue eyes stopping once again on Grantaire before scanning the rest of the crowd. “No, darling. You are dancing with the only suitable person in the room and, as you invariably noticed, he happens to be a young gentleman. I would not dream of absconding with your partner and risking impropriety and embarrassment.”

“I am reluctant to give him up, Enjolras, that much is true, but he has come with the other gentlemen. Indeed, there is one in his party that is quite captivating and a marvelous dancer. He is standing right behind you. Will you allow Mr. Pontmercy to make the introductions?”

“Which do you mean?” Enjolras turns around and Grantaire is subjected to those blue eyes freezing on him for a third time that evening. Grantaire meets Enjolras’ cold gaze and holds it until the latter looks away. “He is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt _me._ ”

Grantaire stays by the edge of the dance floor until Mr. Enjolras and Miss Fauchelevent have walked away, and then proceeds to hastily collect Joly, Bossuet and Marius and escort them out the door. Grantaire claims that it is only proper for gentlemen to leave before they wear out their welcome, but only Marius believes the excuse.

Once tucked safely into the carriage, Marius expands in great detail upon his several dances with Cosette until his friends silence him with the warning that proper gentlemen practice discretion when they truly admire a young lady. Marius, fearing censure above all else, falls into silence and then politely inquires after his friends’ enjoyment of the ball.

Joly and Bossuet tell of a pleasant conversation they'd had with Mr. Courfeyrac and Mr. Combeferre and they are eager to make their acquaintance yet again. “And what of your evening, Grantaire?” Joly asks. “Did you find a dance partner worth mentioning to us?”

Grantaire recounts to them the unpleasantness of his peripheral encounter with Enjolras and they are all shocked at the haughty gentleman’s rude treatment of Grantaire’s feelings, but he simply laughs it off. “Indeed, I consider myself fortunately in my dismissal,” Grantaire tells them, “had he deemed me acceptable, I should have had to endure an entire dance, or perhaps two, in his company.”

The friends agree that Mr. Enjolras is the most disagreeable gentlemen that they have ever met and it is a shame that he must be tolerated in order to enjoy the company of Mr. Courfeyrac, Mr. Combeferre and Miss Fauchelevent. Grantaire loosens his cravat and gazes out the dark carriage, silently wondering if there will ever be a time that he will be deemed acceptable and appropriate, worthy of love and admiration.

He decides that he never will be and Grantaire is rarely wrong.


	2. IV-XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius accepts an invitation, Bossuet is unlucky at predicting the weather and Grantaire finds that he is accomplished at more than one style of sparring.

The two days following the Netherfield Ball are a fraught time at the Longbourn Estate, filled with hyperbolic lamentations from Mr. Marius, who had taken to throwing himself upon various pieces of furniture and declaring his imminent demise if he is unable to see Miss Fauchelevent. 

“I have no doubt I shall soon perish,” Marius moans, his face buried in the cushion of a gold velvet chaise lounge. “My heart itself will cease to beat if my eyes are denied the sight of her exquisite countenance for one day more.”

Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet all sigh in unison, a collective exhale of bemused frustration. At first, Marius’ protestations of love were entertaining, then they grew quite pathetic, and now, by the afternoon of the second day, they have simply become excruciating to endure. Grantaire drains the last bit of brandy from his crystal snifter and hoists himself out of the comfort of his armchair.

“Marius,” Grantaire begins as crosses the parlor and settles again on the chaise near Marius’ booted feet, “if I may be so bold as to offer a singular suggestion—“

“I beg of you, Grantaire,” Marius’ anguish is palpable, even through the plush velvet of the cushion, “advise me, friend. Let your wisdom serve as the rock of solace to rescue me from the tempest of my desperation.”

Across the room, Bossuet lays a hand on Joly’s arm to stifle the laughter that is already evident in the doctor’s eyes. It would be unkind to find amusement in Marius’ grief, however histrionic it may be. The three companions have suggested every plausible course of action to assist Marius in his pursuit of a second meeting with Miss Fauchelevent, but the young gentleman had dismissed all of them out of hand as being too forward, highly improper and shockingly bold. This is infuriating, as the most extreme measure had been Joly’s suggestion that Marius send her a calling card and ask the entire Netherfield party to attend tea at Longbourn.

Grantaire sighs and prepares to recite the list of reasons that he’s already delivered to Marius’ unhearing ears several times over, when he is saved from the laborious task by the entrance of the footman bearing small silver tray.

“A letter has arrived for you gentlemen,” the servant announces, presenting the tray to Marius with a low bow, “from Netherfield Park.”

Marius practically leaps from the chaise to snatch the letter off the tray. The footman retreats again through the parlor door, looking thoroughly nonplussed at the frantic flailing of his young master. The note is nearly torn in Marius’ haste to uncover its contents, which prove miraculous: the entire party has been invited to dine at Netherfield with Mr. Combeferre, Mr. Courfeyrac and Miss Fauchelevent that same evening.

“It is writ in her hand!” Marius exclaims, pressing the paper to his breast. “Her perfect hand touched the very paper that I’m now holding, Grantaire! Touching it is almost like touching the hand of my angel.”

Grantaire gingerly takes the letter from Marius, who has moved it to his face and is now sniffing it with wanton abandon.

“Marius, do show some restraint. This letter is signed ‘Mr. Combeferre,’” Grantaire chastises. “It is he who has invited us and it is Mr. Combeferre whose penmanship you are currently worshipping.”

Undeterred, Marius continues, “But it was undoubtedly she who dictated the words. They have the mark of a feminine tone.”

“Must you always play the cynic, Grantaire?” Bossuet questions. “Allow the boy to have his moment of victory: he has been granted his dearest wish and may now call on Miss Fauchelevent unfettered.”

“And it promises to be a most pleasant evening, Marius,” Grantaire tells him, “for the letter states that her guardian, that horrid bore Mr. Enjolras, is away in town on business. You will not be forced to endure his sour disposition and disapproving company.”

“Order the carriage, Grantaire! We must depart at once,” Marius declares as he fusses with his waistcoat, “But whatever shall I wear?”

Marius’ joy is short-lived, however, as Joly professes that he is needed in town that very afternoon on a medical appointment and that Grantaire, Bossuet and the carriage are all required to come with him.

“But,” Joly assures Marius, his face suspiciously solemn, “we shall meet you at Netherfield when my errand is complete. If you set out on foot immediately, you shall arrive in plenty of time for dinner.”

“Walking? But what if it chances to rain?” Marius asks, glancing out the window at the number of dark grey clouds that have begun to gather in the midday sky.

“It won’t rain,” Bossuet assures him and rushes Marius up to his dressing chamber to select a proper outfit for the evening visit.

Although Marius is too distracted by the prospect of a visit with Miss Fauchelevent to question Joly’s suspicious proclamation, Grantaire is not so trusting. The moment Marius and Bossuet have quit the parlor, Grantaire turns to Joly.

“You have not spoken of a medical appointment before this moment, Joly,” Grantaire says. “And why on earth would I need to accompany you? I have no skill as a nurse.”

A wide smile breaks across Joly’s face. “You have seen through my flimsy ruse, R. There is no such emergency, but there is the need to purchase Marius plenty of time alone with Miss Fauchelevent. You know perfectly well that he will fade into the wallpaper if we are all there to serve as his buffer. If Marius is the sole guest, he will be the center of attention and must set his best foot forward.”

“You are diabolical, Jolllly,” Grantaire remarks, drawling out the L’s in his friend’s name to give it a comically sinister sound. “But why send Marius on foot?”

“So he cannot easily escape when he realizes that we are going to come too late. And if he does not realize our plan until after dark, then so much the better and he may be asked to spend the night. Our simple lie could buy Marius both an evening and a breakfast in his lady’s company.”

“But if it does rain, good sir?” Grantaire says. The clouds outside the window have grown more threatening in the minutes since Bossuet and Marius vacated the room.

“It won’t,” Joly assures him. “Bossuet has said it will not.”

Neither Grantaire nor Joly remember that Bossuet’s weather predictions are habitually incorrect.

Marius has been no more than twenty minutes out of the house when the skies burst open and the countryside is doused in heavy rain for the better part of the evening. Joly’s plan is further stymied when the coachmen tells them that one of the carriage horses has thrown a shoe and the carriage will be unavailable until a farrier is called.

“Well, then,” Bossuet says morosely, “it appears that our well-intentioned plot may have more holes that we had foreseen.”

“No doubt the Netherfield Park carriage can deliver Marius home safely, should he choose to return,” Joly counters, ever optimistic. A knock sounds on the parlor door and the footman, his livery splashed with drops of water from the blowing storm, enters again with yet another letter on his silver tray.

Grantaire opens the rain-spattered note and frowns. “It appears Marius has caught cold. Mr. Combeferre writes to tell us that it is quite severe and that Marius will be spending the night at Netherfield Park.”

“Then we shall walk to fetch him in the morning,” Bossuet declares. “I have no doubt that Marius will be well enough then. No one can possibly catch too severe a cold as a result of a little fall of rain."

This short speech is punctuated by a sneeze from Joly.

###

By morning, Joly, too, has fallen ill and begs Bossuet to stay at his side to nurse him, leaving Grantaire to walk the solitary mile to Netherfield Park to fetch Marius. _It won’t be too bad,_ Grantaire assures himself as he sets off along the muddy country road, _at least Mr. Enjolras won’t be present._

Grantaire is admitted through the formidable front door of Netherfield Park and he tries not to gape at the grandeur of the foyer. Longbourn is a pleasant enough country home, but Netherfield Park makes it appear poor and shabby in comparison. The butler politely ignores the soggy footprints that trail behind Grantaire as he is led to the parlor. The rainstorm left the roads in poor condition and Grantaire’s boots are nearly soaked through from his short walk.

The Netherfield parlor is so imposing—large picture windows, rich furnishings and gilt wallpaper—that Grantaire doesn’t immediately notice that four figures, not three, are seated at the tea table when he enters. It is not until the butler announces his name and a pair of blue eyes snap up in his direction that Grantaire realizes that, contrary to his belief and hope, Mr. Enjolras is indeed home.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac rises to meet him. “It was not necessary for you to make this journey. Mr. Pontmercy is quite safe and cared for here, sir.”

Combeferre also rises. “Indeed, Mr. Grantaire, there was no need for you to put yourself out.”

“It was no trouble,” Grantaire assures them, “and I could not allow Mr. Pontmercy to impose upon your hospitality for a moment longer.”

“We are quite pleased to have Mr. Pontmercy’s company,” Miss Fauchelevent tells him as she, too, stands and politely bows, “he is more than amiable, even in his current condition.”

Mr. Enjolras is the last to rise in greeting, and he does so stiffly and without taking his eyes off of Grantaire. “We should have been more than happy to send a carriage,” Enjolras tells him, eyeing Grantaire’s soggy boots, “and to have saved you the walk along the rain-dampened road, sir. Your trousers are nearly six inches deep in mud.”

Grantaire feels the color begin to rise out of his collar and spread across his face, but whether it is from embarrassment or anger, he cannot be sure. The majority of collected party is kind enough to ignore his disheveled appearance, but Enjolras had to be forward enough to comment. No doubt he wants Marius, Grantaire and Grantaire’s soiled boots out of his home posthaste.

“My walk was quite pleasant, Mr. Enjolras, I assure you,” Grantaire forces a smile, “I am a simple man and a stroll in the rain-fresh countryside is nothing but a pleasure to me. Now, I shall collect my friend, and we will be of no more nuisance to you.”

But Marius’ condition is more dire than Grantaire had realized and Combeferre, himself a student of medicine though not a practitioner, counsels that Marius be allowed to sleep through the morning and regain his strength.

The morning turned into afternoon, and the afternoon stretched into the evening. Marius is still too unwell to travel home and Grantaire finds himself invited to stay for dinner.

“I’m so sorry to be such a dreadful nuisance, Grantaire,” Marius laments, perched against an enormous stack of pillows on his borrowed bed. Marius is pale, his nose red and there are dark circles under his eyes. He coughs weakly. “I have troubled you to come all this way and forced you to spend an evening in the company of a man whose presence you cannot endure.”

Even if Marius’ words are true, Grantaire does not have the heart to berate him for his accidental illness. “I may not be a proper gentleman, Marius, but I am man enough to tolerate Mr. Enjolras for an evening. He does not frighten me.”

“He frightens me enough for the both of us, then, friend,” Marius replies, sneezing heartily. “I could barely find the composure to speak two words together while he glared at me in his frigid manner.”

“Was it not worth the effort, Marius, in order to spend time with your Miss Fauchelevent?” Grantaire asks. “If you cannot endure him for her sake, perhaps your affections are not as strong as you imagine.”

“No! No, Grantaire. She is an angel, a goddess, a nymph divine. I would stand unwavering before a thousand Mr. Enjolrases for a hundred years to earn just a moment in her gentle company.”

Well, then. If the trembling young Marius can conquer his fear of Enjolras, then a man such as Grantaire can manage to stomach his company for the span of a single dinner.

Enjolras does not make the task easy an easy one for Grantaire. For although Grantaire is seated directly to Enjolras’ right at the dinner table, the man barely deigns to speak to him. The delightful company of Courfeyrac and Combeferre are almost enough to make up for the ill-manners of their friend, and Miss Fauchelevent is graciousness personified.

Indeed, Grantaire wishes that perhaps Miss Fauchelevent were a little less gracious, as she continuously attempts to tempt her golden-haired guardian into conversation.

“Look, Enjolras, is not color of Mr. Grantaire’s waistcoat divine?” she points out as the soup is being served. “The green brocade offsets his complexion in the most remarkable manner." 

Mr. Enjolras’ eyes barely flick over to Grantaire. “It is fortunate then for Mr. Grantaire that he resides in the country, where green is still worn. My tailor assures me that that verdant shade has gone out of fashion in London.”

Combeferre frowns into his bowl, while Courfeyrac simply laughs and says, “Alas, Enjolras, when have you ever adhered to the advice of your tailor? He has warned you that your signature shade of crimson is suitable only for soldiers in His Majesty’s Army, yet every year you demand that he cut you a new waistcoat in that color only. You shall be the death of that poor man.”

There is no reply, but Grantaire notices Enjolras’ cheeks flush a shade of red that almost exactly matches that of his much-maligned waistcoat.

Miss Fauchelevent tries again as the meat is being carved. “Mr. Pontmercy tells us that you are a remarkable painter, Mr. Grantaire. Enjolras, do tell Mr. Grantaire of the exquisite collection of paintings that hang in your halls at Pemberley?”

“My father chose them,” is Enjolras’ only reply.

Dessert is served, and Miss Fauchelevent has a minor victory when she reveals that Grantaire is rumored to be a most skilled dancer. “Mr. Pontmercy has spoken highly of your dancing, Mr. Grantaire, he says you are quite the master.”

Grantaire is inclined to agree. He is the dancing tutor of Mr. Pontmercy and, if he is to maintain the dignity of his young benefactor, he cannot claim to be a mediocre one.  “I do not know if I would heap such praise upon myself, Miss Fauchelevent, as to claim mastery. I am continually in pursuit of excellence in the art and true perfection will always be several steps ahead.

“Indeed, I do not believe there is such a thing as perfection in any art form.”

Enjolras looks at him, surprised. “There are many esteemed master artists, Mr. Grantaire, who would take umbrage at your assertion. Do you deny the mastery of the greats?”

“I do indeed, Mr. Enjolras. A man who truly believes he is the master of his craft has foolishly stopped learning and is as good as dead. No matter how excellent one’s art is, there is always another step to be taken on the path toward true perfection. A man who does not acknowledge this is a fool.”

“A man after my own sensibilities!” Combeferre smiles, generating warmth at the table to counter Enjolras’ coldness. “I truly believe that there is always more to be learned: an infinite number books to be read and mounds of history to uncover.”

“Oh dear, you have foolishly allowed Combeferre to begin speaking of the pursuit of knowledge, Mr. Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. “We shall all be treated to a lecture on education for the rest of the evening.”

Combeferre denies that this is his intent, but deftly changes the subject and questions Grantaire further about his own achievements. “You are a artist, dancer and fencer, Mr. Grantaire?” Combeferre says amiably. “To be in possession of so many skills is a true accomplishment that few men can claim.”

Enjolras sets down his dainty silver dessert spoon and regards Grantaire with a lifted eyebrow. “I believe to pursue so many arts is to be the master of none. It cannot be possible to reach the pinnacle of achievement if one’s focus is scattered. Indeed, I have met few men who are as truly accomplished as they claim.”

“Enjolras!” Miss Fauchelevent cries. “It is indelicate of you to speak in such a manner. Mr. Grantaire is not the one proclaiming his own accomplishments.”

She reaches one small hand out and sets it softly on Grantaire’s arm. Enjolras’ mouth tightens. “Cosette!” he admonishes, and she withdraws her hand. Grantaire cannot help but note the manner in which Enjolras glares at her forwardness. Perhaps Marius has more to worry about in his pursuit of Miss Fauchelevent that simply her guardian’s censure. Enjolras looks positively jealous.

The task once again falls to Combeferre to restore the peace at the dinner table. “You must be a most admirable dance tutor, Mr. Grantaire, despite your protestations. For Mr. Pontmercy cut quite a striking figure on the dance floor at the ball. As did you yourself, sir. If I may say so, I find you to be a most excellent dancer.” 

“I am regarded in such a manner by many in both the country and in London, Mr. Combeferre," Grantaire acquiesces, “although it does appear that my skills are not admirable enough to tempt some in this company.” 

This is enough to draw Mr. Enjolras’ attention. His blue gaze rests heavily on Grantaire for a moment before he replies, “If you are alluding to my reluctance to step out at the ball last week, Mr. Grantaire, I shall make one thing quite clear: I do not dance.” He moves to take a spoonful of lemon ice, but Courfeyrac interrupts.

“But now, Enjolras, you have a tutor in your company who may be up to that monumental task! Indeed, Grantaire, you would prove to be the master of your art if you could succeed in teaching Enjolras to dance.”

Combeferre steps in. “Enjolras knows _how_ to dance, Courfeyrac, he simply chooses not to engage in the practice. The purpose of a dance is to encourage affection and we all know he has no desires to that end.” 

“Really, Mr. Enjolras?” Grantaire says. “It will be quite a disappointment to the young ladies of the town to hear that you do not come to the country seeking a bride.”

The table falls silent. Grantaire had intended to make it through the entire meal without allowing his caustic wit to chafe his hosts, but it is clear that his hopes were horribly misplaced. In addition to being an accomplished artist, dancer and fencer, Grantaire is quite talented at saying precisely the wrong thing.

Finally Enjolras speaks. “You have quite deftly uncovered my intentions, Mr. Grantaire. I do not seek a wife in either the country or in London. I leave the task of pursuing eligible young women to gentlemen like your friend, Mr. Pontmercy.”

“Enjolras!” Miss Fauchelevent looks stricken.

“Perhaps we should move into the parlor,” Mr. Combeferre interrupts, pushing back his chair. Grantaire is intensely grateful at the distraction.

“Do not be troubled over Mr. Enjolras’ criticism, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac assures him as they leave the dining room. “He is faultless and finds great pleasure in pointing out the flaws of others.”

The party settles into a set of comfortable armchairs and Courfeyrac begins dealing out a hand of cards. “Perhaps that is Enjolras’ only defect: that he has none.”

“You know perfectly well that I am not such an ideal man, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says. “Indeed, I am aware of all my flaws, the chiefest among them being my disdain for any man who willfully ignores his own. A man must recognize his shortcomings and seek to change them.”

“What other faults in character can you possibly claim, Mr. Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, delighted. “Aside from your modesty in regard to your dancing?” 

“And again we find ourselves on the subject of Enjolras’ dancing!” Courfeyrac says. “Enjolras, providence has placed an expert instructor right in our midst. You say that a man should endeavor to mend his flaws: here is your opportunity to do that very thing.”

“We have no music,” Enjolras replies.

“I do not claim to be a great pianist, but my skill is tolerable enough,” Miss Fauchelevent adds, her eyes shining. “I would be more than happy to play for you.”

Enjolras respectfully declines and remains seated firmly in his armchair.

“Ah, Mr. Enjolras,” Grantaire says, as Courfeyrac hands him a snifter of brandy. “Your chief defect becomes clear: an open enough mind to accept your own flaws, yet an unwillingness to do anything to remedy them.”

“And yours becomes clear as well, Mr. Grantaire,” Enjolras replies with a smile, “once other people’s flaws are uncovered, you are relentless in exploiting them.”

Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Miss Fauchelevent all laugh at this and the mood of the parlor becomes far merrier. Although Enjolras will not deign to dance, Courfeyrac accepts a lesson from Grantaire and Miss Fauchelevent accompanies them on the small pianoforte.

“We cut a fine figure, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac whispers into his ear, “but I feel as though you have your sights set on a much more challenging target, do you not?” 

Grantaire begins to feel the danger of paying Enjolras too much attention.

 

###

The next morning, Combeferre deems Marius well enough to travel home, and the Netherfield Park carriage is ordered. As he helps Marius into the carriage, Grantaire is delighted with both the improvement to his young friend’s health and the prospect of leaving Netherfield Park and its haughty master behind.

“I do hope to see you again, Miss Fauchelevent,” Marius tells her out the window of the carriage after he is comfortably seated and wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. “Perhaps under less sickly circumstances.”

“Of course, sir!” she replies with a smile. “And I anticipate that day will come sooner than we could have hoped: I have persuaded my dear guardian to hold another ball. Do send word when you’ve fully recovered from your illness and we shall set the date.”

Miss Fauchelevent is glowing, but behind her, Enjolras frowns as if granting her wish for another ball were the most painful of promises. Grantaire understands his feelings fully. Perhaps he should be cheered that he and Enjolras finally have something in common.


End file.
